by Fuad Baloch
Qaisan glanced back. “Take her—” General Nodin hadn’t lied. Qaisan was no warrior, and that momentary distraction was enough. He shouted in pain, his unmasked face twisting as a sword found way into his stomach. Then, a mace smashed into his face, crumpling him to the ground, snuffing the shout halfway for good.
Some of her men still stood fighting, but that shouldn't have been possible. Ruma shook her head, realising that the Traditionalists were no longer even trying to complete their job. Instead, they were toying with them. The alpha predator amusing itself having inflicted the mortal blow.
“Our men are routing!” yelled General Nodin. He joined her, his sword held out high, looking foolish as the surge of Traditionalists directly ahead continued to build.
“Routing?” Ruma said. She knew what the words meant, of course, even if the idea sounded strange. Weren’t her men inspired by Alf, their hearts sound in the knowledge that to die here was worth good deeds done over a hundred lifetimes? Yet, her eyes saw what the general said. Those who had stood their ground so far could see their fates clearly and didn't want to meet them anymore.
“Lady!”
“I’ve lost.” Ruma swallowed. Suddenly, the sun was far too hot, her body far too weak to stand another second. She’d tried, by the gods she had, but now the hand wielding the dagger had been cut out. “This is it.”
General Nodin was saying something but she couldn't hear him over the triumphant war horns. Yasmeen had won.
“We have to leave!” General Nodin bellowed, shaking her by the shoulder.
“I’m not finished yet,” she said, her words slurring. “Not until one of us lives and breathes.”
Exhaling, raising the sword in front, she trudged towards the tent. Hundreds of faces glared at her.
“Cunt!”
“She-devil!”
She heard the words but didn’t care much. What was the point? She continued forward, even Nodin staying behind now. One woman against a thousand leering bastards.
Trumpets sounded again.
The men in front began shouting. She was going to die here today. Her body would find no grave, though. Her name would be lost in the sands of time. None of that mattered. A strange thing, that. She would never see her world, but that didn't hurt as much. It was that she’d never see Gulatu.
Her feet stumbled at that thought.
Shaking her head, she advanced. The soldiers ahead were breaking away. General Nodin rushed up to join her. He was shouting again, but once more, she couldn’t hear him. The mercenary general grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her around. As she raised a hand to slap him, her eyes crossed over to the horizon, and she heard the trumpets again in the north.
The north!
Flags fluttered in the distance. A sea of brown Scythes.
More trumpets blared. More drums beat angrily. The Traditionalists were roaring, rushing towards the approaching army.
Her armies had arrived.
Twenty-Six
Shade of Swords
“Alf’s breath, it’s good to see you, Yenita!” huffed Ruma, opening her arms. The younger girl hesitated for a moment, then stepped in to embrace Ruma, lingering for the barest of moments before withdrawing.
“I headed south as per your letter,” Yenita said, righting the veil on her head, pointing to a masked rider trotting up to them, “before I met him at Okana.”
“Gareeb!” said Ruma as her commander removed his mark and grinned. The smile faded though as his eyes travelled past her to the battlefield.
“The angels of Alf have been busy taking lives today,” he said even as the cannoneers busied themselves, hastily assembling the cannons together.
“That, they have,” Ruma admitted. “The few making sacrifices for the many.” Exhaling, she, too, turned to face the battlefield. Hard to believe she wasn’t there a mere ten or so minutes ago. That she had been staring at her own death. She hadn't known which Traditionalist would strike the killing blow, or how they would kill her, but she hadn’t cared that much. All she’d felt was the burning shame at failing to stop Yasmeen even after all the sacrifices she had extracted.
She was going to die, would have died, had Yenita and Gareeb not showed up.
Her gamble had worked! Ruma shook her head, her mind still coming to terms with the fact that she had managed to successfully draw Yasmeen’s attention away from both the slow-moving cannons and Yenita’s cavalry all this while.
“They are regrouping,” announced General Nodin, the only councillor she now had left of the original four. “We don’t have much time.”
“How many men do you have, Yenita?” Ruma asked.
“After the battles of Polkar and Banan, two thousand. Another thousand that Gareeb had under his command,” replied Yenita.
Something in the hard voice gave Ruma pause. She inclined her chin towards Yenita. “You found Sivan?”
“Dead. His body left mutilated at Banan.”
“I’m sorry,” Ruma said. She shook her head. “We’ll avenge him.”
Yenita stepped forward, her eyes unblinking. “Another sacrifice, huh?” Ruma didn't reply. Yenita turned her chin towards the distant camps. “Her men did that.”
“Yasmeen will pay.”
“I could have saved him,” Yenita said, her voice dropping so low Ruma almost didn't hear her over the bleating camels. “Had I been able to leave earlier, like I’d asked, I could have saved him.”
Ruma opened her jaw, then let it close. What could she say to a girl who had lost the only family she had left? Instead, she raised her hand to dab at her forehead, then stared in shock at the red staining it. How many men’s lifeblood did she carry on herself this very moment? As if reminded, the wounds in her shoulder and thigh cried out for attention. Ruma adjusted her weight, memory of Yenita’s surgeons bandaging and stemming the wounds a hazy memory. She nodded. “Nodin is right. Order your men to gather up. The Traditionalists are tired, disoriented. We’ve confused them, broken their resolve. Under the weight of our cavalry, they’ll scatter like pollen.”
Gareeb turned.
Yenita cackled. “Haven’t the few made enough sacrifices for the many?”
Ruma blinked. “What?”
Yenita turned around to see Ruma in the eye. “The Traditionalists are far too many, way too experienced. Even with our fresh reinforcements, we lack the numbers.” She raised her hand towards the camp. “They have archers, taking up positions even as we speak. We will lose many before we even get close.”
Ruma gritted her teeth. “But—”
Yenita shook her head again. She was much younger than Ruma, a naive girl who hadn’t seen much of the world, but draped in the all-enveloping shawl that hid both her hair and the curves of her body, suddenly she seemed two decades wiser. “I hate Yasmeen, more than you ever could after what she did to my family, but taking the fight to them would be suicidal.” She paused. “If we all die here, how will I have my revenge?”
“We can’t wait for them to regroup,” protested Ruma. “Can’t you see—”
“Use the cannons,” said Yenita, her words slow, deliberate. “That’s what they’re for, right?”
Ruma exhaled. It was one thing building a monstrosity and quite another to use it. Like an arrow loosed in the air, once the world knew the power of these weapons, there would be no turning back the vicious race of destruction that would ensue. Fear, that was the weapon she had wanted to employ, not its manifestation if she could help it. But then again, Yenita did have a point. She hung her head. “Very well. Gareeb, prepare them.”
“Aye,” said Gareeb. He rode over to the cannoneers.
General Nodin took charge of the force, neither Yenita nor Gareeb complaining, as he began arraying their men into a defensive formation. In the distance, the Traditionalists did the same, as if taunting the Lady’s Light to storm them once more.
“They could just ride up to us,” Ruma muttered. “They still have the advantage of numbers.”
“T
hey will,” said Yenita. “Eventually.”
Ruma nodded weakly.
Long minutes passed, the soldiers and animals waiting nervously.
Despite all the knowledge Ruma could call upon to help fashion them, the cannons were unwieldy, their machinations far too rudimentary for her liking, their operators only as good as school kids given basic instructions for operating a fusion engine. Yet, it seemed that during their march, as she had asked, Gareeb had had the cannoneers practising.
Carts, each drawn by six horses, ferried massive smooth rocks to the cannons. Men dressed in black garb approached from the opposite side, pulling hand-drawn carts carrying gunpowder. A fearful silence descended upon them all as the first artillery unit this world had ever seen got to its job as best as they could. Horses whinnied, the faithful prayed, a coterie of priests to the side chanted to Alf. Ruma closed her eyes. The afternoon had arrived but still the sun singed her skin. She pulled the shawl that one of the soldiers had given her over her eyes, and tilted her head back. Blood pounded against her temples, her body ached, her heart thrummed like a fusion engine at its deathbed, her fingers twitched, her skin crawled at the bits of flesh still stuck to it.
“Oh, Alf…” she muttered. “What do you want from me?”
No one answered. The cannoneers grunted as they heaved and readied the cannons with their payloads. Ruma bit her cheek. When would the Traditionalists decide they had waited enough and charge them instead? Then again, Yasmeen had always been cautious. The Traditionalist leader suspected a trap—rightfully so—and wouldn't enter a battleground she couldn't control.
She didn't have the cannons, though.
“Lady, they’re ready!” announced Gareeb. His voice shook, but whether it was out of anxiety or excitement, Ruma couldn't tell.
She opened her eyes. True enough, the artillerymen stood at attention beside the cannons, their firing arcs already set, nothing between them and the enemy forces but empty ground and the dead.
Ruma turned towards Yenita. “You’re not going to counsel me to sue for peace?”
“Never,” replied the younger girl, her fingers clenched.
Ruma nodded, then paused. The moment stretched, a weighty silence that terrified her. “Yenita?”
The young general looked up at her. “Yes?”
“After this battle, these cannons need to be destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
“They will be misused.”
Yenita licked her lower lip. “How about we win this first?”
Gathering her resolve, Ruma crossed over to the cannoneers. Like she had done before, she raised her hand towards a soldier carrying a torch. “Give it to me.” With the torch in her hand, she approached the fuse of the closest cannon. The firing arc wasn’t perfect—trigonometry and advanced angles were far too difficult to teach—but the men had done the best they could. Before stray thoughts could weaken her, she brought the torch forward and lit the fuse.
The filament caught fire, the flames slithering over the sands and sprinting towards the cannon. The men around her covered their ears, one of them squeezing his eyes shut as well. Ruma did neither of that. Placing her hands on her hips, she glared at the distant figures of the Traditionalists, her palms going moist.
The cannon fired. A massive boom that could have rivalled the thunderclap of any storm she had ever flown through. A dust of angry grey burst from the cannon mouth, pierced by slivers of yellow fire. The payload exploded forward, its flight aided by her knowledge of metallurgy and chemistry, leaving behind the pungent, rich smell of burnt gunpowder.
If the Traditionalists were shouting at the monstrosity hurtling towards them, she couldn't hear them.
The aim was true. The stone thumped into the Traditionalist horde. The uniform lines collapsed, crumbling as if ice suddenly made water.
“Fire at will!” she shouted, her voice loud and clear. Just the way Tasina would have sounded had she been here.
The cannoneers approached their stations. The second cannon fired, then the third. Before long, all six were firing.
Like automatons designed for one thing, they unleashed their payloads of doom over and over again. Balls of death rose in the air, thundering as they flew, and wrought terrible destruction when they fell. Ruma tried to imagine the impact a stone this heavy would make when striking the flesh of men and failed.
Her men were shouting. No, praying. Ruma smiled sadly as Yenita stepped up beside her. “Funny how they thank Alf for something that man does to his fellow man.”
“For what a woman does to men,” said Yenita.
Ruma nodded. “You’ve grown wise.”
Both of them grew silent. Gareeb rushed between the cannons, supervising the carts carrying the stones, keeping the men with sacks of gunpowder away from the cannons until they were required, righting the firing arcs personally after each volley.
Ruma shuddered as the air burned around her. She had fought in many battles before, had even seen reconstructions of historical battles in holo movies, but nothing had prepared her for the raw energy of a battle like this. A torpedo packed a punch a thousand times greater than what these rudimentary cannons could manage, but it flew in silence, and when it did strike, its victims lost air, their voices silenced by space. These cannons on the other hand boomed, crackled, thundered.
“Keep firing!” bellowed Gareeb. “Fracking hell, keep at it, Wasan!”
Realising her nails were digging into her palms, Ruma unclenched her fists.
“Archers, take up positions,” General Nodin was shouting. “Riders, spread out and cover the flanks.”
Ruma shook her head. What was the need for that? Then, through the grey clouds restricting her sight, she caught sight of the Traditionalist horde, battle-hardened and invincible, routing. Like ants fleeing the anthill, tiny figures of men ran and rode in all four directions.
A small contingent, led by a hundred horsemen though, was galloping towards them.
“The final stand,” said General Nodin, coming up to her. “Brave. But unwise.”
Ruma nodded, her heart aching at the sight of these men who would die on account of their bravery.
A volley of arrows pierced the smoke, the cannons falling silent.
Half the Traditionalist riders fell, the others not slowing down.
“Fire!” bellowed General Nodin.
More arrows flew, her soldiers firing at will. More riders fell. Just thirty or so left now. Souls with hearts just as stubborn as hers, even if they were on the wrong side of history.
Ruma blinked as a hundred cavalrymen of Lady’s Light smashed into the Traditionalists. The infantry advanced, their spears and lances finding home, unhorsing Traditionalists who made it past the cavalry. Those who fell, found swords waiting for them.
Within minutes, the battle was finished.
“Just like that…” muttered Ruma.
“Give them mercy killings,” shouted Yenita, motioning at a commander. “No need to prolong their misery.”
Ruma shivered, hugging herself. The sun was a few metres over the sand dunes to the west now, casting the world in gold, elongating the shadows of anything that still breathed. Ruma looked over at the Traditionalist camp. Armour glinted outside the tents. “Yasmeen,” Ruma muttered, both surprised and relieved. “You didn’t flee.”
“Time we paid her a visit,” said Yenita.
Ruma blew out pent-up air, her right hand fidgeting with her shawl. “Aye, time to finish this.”
Twenty-Seven
The Final Moments
Their boots splashing in the blood the sands hadn't yet sucked dry, Ruma and Yenita marched over to Yasmeen’s tent. Four of the six Traditionalist guards stationed outside moved to block them, their swords held out in front.
“Halt, in the name of the Blessed Mother!” their leader cried out. He was an old man, most probably in his sixties, but moved with the grace and agility of someone half his age. A loyal man who had chosen to stand by his mistress till
the very end, a trait Ruma couldn't help but admire no matter how silly that was.
Yenita made a shooing motion with her right hand, and twenty of their soldiers rushed ahead. The ensuing fight lasted longer than it should have, the two women standing still for tense moments, but then again, the result was never in doubt.
The two remaining guards exchanged a glance. The one to the left raised a placating hand, his dark eyes sweeping over them. He stepped forward, his face turned towards Yenita. “Lady, the Blessed Mother is not to be disturbed. She has commanded—”
Yenita threw the dagger she had been holding in her hand. It flew true, finding home in the soldier’s forehead. He crumpled noiselessly, two of their soldiers stabbing the other guard in the gut. Ruma cracked her knuckles. The sun had started to set, and through the canvas of the tent, she could see the outlines of torches burning within. Yasmeen was there. Waiting for her.
Drawing in a long breath, Ruma gathered her courage. All this effort, all the sacrifices she had made, all of that had led to this very moment. Now was not the time to go weak in the knees. She raised the curtain flap and entered, Yenita following her.
Time stopped.
For a moment, Ruma found herself transported back in time. The tent looked exactly like it had when she had first visited Yasmeen. The almirah set to the side, cushions opposite it, the large table set in the middle, and the tall, slender woman standing behind it.
Ruma froze, her mind drawing more parallels. The last time she had visited this woman, she had been accompanied by Hadyan. Now though, it was Yenita. Back then, she had been the prisoner marched to see her captor. Now, Ruma was the captor come to see her prisoner.
So much had changed in the intervening months. Yet, as she locked eyes with Yasmeen, she felt strength draining from her, her resolve leaking away in front of the woman who had become the focal point of life for the believers of this era. Again, Ruma was the young woman, Yasmeen the wiser, worldlier of the two. Ruma, the unmarried woman, lusting after the other woman’s husband.